Sudden sweat on Bottle's skin.
She appeared from the heat haze, moving like an animal – prey, not predator, in her every careful, watchful motion – fine-furred, deep brown, a face far more human than ape, filled with expression – or at least its potential, for the look she fixed upon him now was singular in its curiosity. As tall as Bottle, lean but heavy-breasted, belly distended. Skittish, she edged closer.
She is not real. A manifestation, a conjuration. A memory sprung from the dust of this land.
He watched her crouch to collect a handful of sand, then fling it at him, voicing a loud barking grunt. The sand fell short, a few pebbles bouncing off his boots.
Or maybe I am the conjured, not her. In her eyes the wonder of coming face to face with a god, or a demon. He looked past her, and saw the vista of a savannah, thick with grasses, stands of trees and wildlife.
Nothing like it should have been, only what it once was, long ago. Oh, spirits, why won't you leave me alone?
She had been following. Following them all. The entire army. She could smell it, see the signs of its passing, maybe even hear the distant clack of metal and wooden wheels punching down the sides of stones in the road as they rocked along. Driven on by fear and fascination, she had followed, not understanding how the future could echo back to her world, her time. Not understanding? Well, he couldn't either. As if all is present, as if every moment co-exists. And here we two are, face to face, both too ignorant to partition our faith, our way of seeing the world – and so we see them all, all at once, and if we're not careful it will drive us mad.
But there was no turning back. Simply because back did not exist.
He remained seated and she came closer, chattering now in some strange glottal tongue filled with clicks and stops. She gestured at her own belly, ran an index figure along it as if drawing a shape on the downy, paler pelt.
Bottle nodded. Yes, you carry a child. I understand that much. Still, what is that to me?
She threw more sand at him, most of it striking below his chest. He waved at the cloud in front of his stinging eyes.
A lunge forward, surprisingly swift, and she gripped his wrist, drew his arm forward, settled his hand on her belly.
He met her eyes, and was shaken to his very core. This was no mindless creature. Eres'al. The yearning in those dark, stunningly beautiful eyes made him mentally reel.
'All right,' he whispered, and slowly sent his senses questing, into that womb, into the spirit growing within it.
For every abomination, there must emerge its answer. Its enemy, its counterbalance. Here, within this Eres'al, is such an answer. To a distant abomination, the corruption of a once-innocent spirit.
Innocence must be reborn. Yet… I can see so little… not human, not even of this world, barring what the Eres'al herself brought to the union. Thus, an intruder. From another realm, a realm bereft of innocence. To make them part of this world, one of their kind must be born… in this way. Their blood must be drawn into this world's flow of blood.
But why an Eres'al? Because… gods below… because she is the last innocent creature, the last innocent ancestor of our line. After her… the degradation of spirit begins. The shifting of perspective, the separation from all else, the carving of borders – in the ground, in the mind's way of seeing. After her, there's only… us.
The realization – the recognition – was devastating. Bottle pulled his hand away. But it was too late. He knew too many things, now. The father… Tiste Edur. The child to come… the only pure candidate for a new Throne of Shadow – a throne commanding a healed realm.
And it would have so many enemies. So many…
'No,' he said to the creature, shaking his head. 'You cannot pray to me. Must not. I'm not a god. I'm only a…'
Yet… to her I must seem just that. A vision. She is spirit-questing and she barely knows it. She's stumbling, as much as we all are, but within her there's a kind of… certainty. Hope. Gods… faith.
Humbled beyond words, filling with shame, Bottle pulled away, clawing up the slope of the mound, amidst the detritus of civilization, potsherds and fragments of mortar, rusted pieces of metal. No, he didn't want this. Could not encompass this… this need in her. He could not be her… her faith.
She drew yet closer, hands closing round his neck, and dragged him back. Teeth bared, she shook him.
Unable to breathe, Bottle flailed in her grip.
She threw him down, straddled him, released his neck and raised two fists as if to batter him.
'You want me to be your god?' he gasped, 'Fine, then! Have it your way!' He stared up at her eyes, at the fists lifted high, framed by bright, blinding sunlight.
So, is this how a god feels?
A flash of glare, as if a sword had been drawn, an eager hiss of iron filling his head. Something like a fierce challengeBlinking, he found himself staring up at the empty sky, lying on the rough scree. She was gone, but he could still feel the echo of her weight on his hips, and the appalling erection her position had triggered in him.
Fist Keneb walked into the Adjunct's tent. The map-table had been assembled and on it was an imperial map of Y'Ghatan that had been delivered a week earlier by a rider from Onearm's Host. It was a scholar's rendition drawn shortly after Dassem's fall. Standing at Tavore's side was Tene Baralta, busy scrawling all over the vellum with a charcoal stick, and the Red Blade was speaking.
'… rebuilt here, and here, in the Malazan style of sunk columns and counter-sunk braces. The engineers found the ruins beneath the streets to be a maze of pockets, old rooms, half-buried streets, wells and inside-wall corridors. It should all have been flattened, but at least one age of construction was of a stature to rival what's possible these days. Obviously, that gave them problems, which is why they gave up on the fourth bastion.'
'I understand,' the Adjunct said, 'however, as I stated earlier, Fist Baralta, I am not interested in assailing the fourth bastion.'
Keneb could see the man's frustration, but he held his tongue, simply tossing down the charcoal stick and stepping away from the table.
Over in the corner sat Fist Blistig, legs sprawled out in a posture bordering on insubordination.
'Fist Keneb,' Tavore said, eyes still on the map, 'have you met with Temul and Warleader Gall?'
'Temul reports the city has been evacuated – an exodus of citizens on the road to Lothal. Clearly, Leoman is planning for a long siege, and is not interested in feeding anyone but soldiers and support staff.'
'He wants room to manoeuvre,' said Blistig from where he sat. 'Panic in the streets won't do. We shouldn't read too much into it, Keneb.'
'I suspect,' Tene Baralta said, 'we're not reading enough into it. I am nervous, Adjunct. About this whole damned situation. Leoman didn't come here to defend the last rebel city. He didn't come to protect the last believers – by the Seven Holies, he has driven them from their very homes, from their very own city! No, his need for Y'Ghatan was tactical, and that's what worries me, because I can make no sense of it.'
The Adjunct spoke: 'Did Temul have anything else to say, Keneb?'
'He had thoughts of a night attack, with sappers, taking out a section of wall. Presumably, we would then follow through in strength, into that breach, thrusting deep into Y'Ghatan's heart. Cut through far enough and we can isolate Leoman in the Falah'd's palace…'
'Too risky,' Tene Baralta said in a grumble. 'Darkness won't cover those sappers from their mages. They'd get slaughtered-'
'Risks cannot be avoided,' Tavore said.
Keneb's brows rose. 'Temul said much the same, Adjunct, when the danger was discussed.'
'Tene Baralta,' Tavore continued after a moment, 'you and Blistig have been directed as to the disposition of your companies. Best you begin preparations. I have spoken directly with Captain Faradan Sort on what will be required of her and her squads. We shall not waste time on this. We move tonight. Fist Keneb, remain, please. The rest of you are dismissed.'
Keneb watched Blistig and Baralta leave, reading in an array of small signs – posture, the set of their shoulders and the stiffness of their gaits – the depth of their demoralization.
